


to remember your mouth, how it tasted true

by nosecoffee



Category: The Goldfinch (2019), The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt
Genre: Character Study, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Intricate Rituals, Love Confessions, M/M, Post canon, Referenced murder, Sharing a Bed, Smoking, Theo has less repression than usual sorry folks, just guys being dudes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:53:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22374454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nosecoffee/pseuds/nosecoffee
Summary: (i don’t smoke except for when i’m missing you)*Theo got it into his head that the cigarettes would start the chain reaction that would send them to early graves if they weren’t careful, all spouted into the darkness of Welty’s room, while Boris perched on the windowsill.And yet, he had grinned and put out his cigarette on the ashtray there, and said, “Then of course I will stop.”Which was so lovely at the time. It was significantly less lovely when he found Boris smoking in the bathroom three days later.
Relationships: Theodore Decker & Boris Pavlikovsky, Theodore Decker/Boris Pavlikovsky
Comments: 16
Kudos: 179





	to remember your mouth, how it tasted true

**Author's Note:**

> Title from “I Don’t Smoke” by Mitski because every Mitski song makes me think of them

_being with you makes the flame burn good_

  
  


“I’m quitting,” Boris says every time Theo catches him smoking. “I’ll stop.”

And it’s not like Theo is a hypocrite, he’s not, now he only smokes when he’s stressed which turns out is still often, but not as frequent as it used to be, not two packs in three days, chain smoking at the window in Welty’s room with his forehead pressed to the wood of the window frame.

Really, it was enough that they both went cold turkey from the drink and the pills — and, in Boris’ case, the needle — but then Theo got it into his head that the cigarettes would start the chain reaction that would send them to early graves if they weren’t careful, all spouted into the darkness of Welty’s room, while Boris perched on the windowsill.

And yet, he had grinned and put out his cigarette on the ashtray there, and said, “Then of course I will stop.”

Which was so lovely at the time, and Theo had choked on his heart climbing up his throat, clawing at his tongue, begging silently to be heard. It was significantly _less_ lovely when he found Boris smoking in the bathroom three days later.

The same promises recur every time he opens a door or rounds a corner and white smoke billows from the gap between Boris’ soft pink lips. “I’m quitting,” he promises, a smile cracking the corner of his mouth. “I’ll stop, trust me?”

Theo shouldn’t, at this point, but every time he says _yes. Yes, I trust you._

And perhaps he asked too much. Yes. Perhaps he said, “Boris, come back to New York with me. Boris, travel with me on my grand apology tour of buying back Hobie’s changelings. Boris, stop drinking, stop taking pills, stop injecting poison directly into your veins, and above all, Boris, do it for me. You care what I feel for you, what I think of you, right? Stop all of it, and do it for me.”

(But that sounds like the Boris in his head, the one who hates Theo, the one who wants him dead and would have gladly let him die in that hotel room in Amsterdam. The real Boris would never complain and never has. He’s far too gracious and aware of Theo.)

So Theo, too aware of how it seems, takes a deep breath, and when he sees Boris smoking he waves away the excuses, the apologies, the promises, because he knows he went too far, asked too much, _took_ too much, and _of course_ he trusts Boris, but he also trusts that Boris needs his vices.

“I’ll quit.” They’re outside the shop. It’s like he wasn’t even hiding this time, standing on the front steps and shivering in his big winter coat. Theo stepped out to get some air, and there he was, cigarette smoking between his fingers, guilty smile on his face.

“You don’t need to,” Theo sighs, leaning up against the stone bannister beside him. He always leaves one or two lamps on in the shop window, the special detailed ones that cast multicoloured flows through their intricate lampshades. Boris is cast in blue and gold. It suits him.

“You asked me to,” He replies, actually having the shame to sound apologetic instead of just charming and nonchalant about it.

“I won’t take this from you.” Perhaps it’s less about the cigarettes than he meant it to be, but he says it all the same.

“I don’t need it,” Boris insists. Theo takes the cigarette from between his fingers and sets it between his own lips, taking a drag. He always waits for that one cigarette with just the right hit of nicotine, and it comes once in a blue moon. Boris lit it up right here on the steps. _“Potter.”_

“I was being selfish. Neurotic.” He exhales the smoke, and it obscures Boris for a moment. He shivers, only wearing a thin sweater and jeans. “I asked too much.”

“Not selfish.” Boris shakes his head, smiling ruefully, and reaches up to take the cigarette. “Just worried.”

Theo huffs, watching Boris inhale the smoke. He looks relaxed, his shoulders loose and free of tension. He was wrong to try and take this. “I _worried_ too much, then.”

“Worried _just enough.”_ He corrects and reaches for Theo’s face this time with an empty hand, cupping his cheek. “I _appreciate_ it.” His fingers are cold against Theo’s jaw. If he were braver, if he didn’t care what a passerby would think, what Boris might think, he’d take that hand from his face and rub the warmth back into his fingertips.

Theo is _not_ brave.

“You shouldn’t,” he says, and pulls away from Boris’ touch. “I was being crazy.”

“Wouldn’t be you if you weren’t crazy, Potter,” Boris says, and laughs, adding, “You are joint package, no?”

Theo shoves him playfully, laughing, “Get _fucked.”_

(It’s probably wishful thinking, but he catches Boris smoking less after that.)

~

The first time you kill someone, it sticks with you.

Boris tried to kill his father all those years ago in the Ukraine, out in the cold, door bolted shut. It was impersonal and easy to ignore. Yes, _so easy_ to ignore the scratching at the door, the croaks to be let in, _Borya, please, I know you are there, open the door._

Eventually it faded to silence and Boris fell asleep on the couch. The next morning there was no body on the doorstep, and it unnerved him to no end that there was no sight of his father, not even a suspicious mound of snow in the yard. Of course, a few days later when he turned up more drunk than ever, jubilant and forgetful, it all made sense. Of course god would not let him die, not when Boris has so much left to see and do, so many places to be, so many people to grasp in his hands — loves of his life as he knew them to be, as they denied being — and beg them to stay.

In comparison, the first time he actually gives himself the power, the first time he knows what he will do and how it will end up, it is _very_ personal.

His gun jitters in his hand, the man against the barrel sobbing and pleading. Boris knows how this man has wronged his employer, that Mr Silver, he knows what this man thinks is fair, and has found he does not agree. Boris knows this is a fundamental moment. Is he a killer? He knows he has far too much love in his heart, always has, but is there cruelty there too?

(Of course there is. The cruelty in him took Potter’s bird away, and instead of owning up to it took his kiss as well.)

So he pulls the trigger, a sense of absolute clarity in the action, and he knows he is a killer.

Theo, on the other hand, has cruelty aplenty in him and yet he shakes and hesitates when faced with an impossible decision, the gun already loaded in his hand. Boris isn’t even looking when Theo pulls the trigger, but he hears the shot and the accompanying thump of the man falling back down on the parking garage floor, this time for good. He sees Theo leaning over him a few moments later, stuffing the gun in his pocket and helping Boris to his feet, asking how to call Gyuri, telling him they need to go, need to run, someone probably heard the shots and probably called the authorities.

Theo is a flurry of movement, of panic and disbelief in the aftermath of killing a man to protect Boris. Boris tries to remember if he was similar after he killed that man for Mr Silver.

All he knows is that he and Theo are the same now. Liars and cheats and _killers._ Men who love too fiercely and deceive to easily and fight to the ends of the earth, defy god and all things above by performing the most damning sin imaginable. Their violence binds them as tightly as their love does, for the violence is borne of their need to protect, borne of their love.

~

Theo swims twice a week. There’s a pool at the gym he frequents, and it’s quiet there, because not many people use it, and those who do are as private and as efficient as Theo himself is. Around half an hour of laps in different styles, some treading water as he rehydrates, and then a slow sink to the bottom, just to see how long he can hold his breath. It’s always longer than the time before.

Swimming made more sense than picking up jogging or weight lifting or anything like that. Theo’s always had an affinity for water, whether it was the over-chlorinated stuff that made up the backyard pool at his father’s house in Vegas or the rain that rolled far too frequently for his liking into New York City. Ever since he emerged from the Met into the storm of heavy rain and screaming sirens, water had always seemed to him to be calming, soothing, understanding.

Forgiving.

Unlike the drugs in that simple respect. He’s loathe to say it — that the water is just a way of muting the outside world, making it more bearable for him — and the drugs were similar, like a winter coat, a shield, a lens set between Theo and everything else, used to separate and clear up everything that didn’t make sense, everything that distressed, made it all seem nicer, tidier. When Theo had the drugs he had their protection.

When he went off them they were unforgiving in their retribution, the detox hitting hard, the world filled with the nightmares he was running from.

Now, though, he has the water.

And Boris. Boris protects him, that’s all he’s done since he turned back up. Boris hugs Theo to his chest at night, hushing him, telling him to go back to sleep, he’s here, don’t worry — and the subtle command in his words never fails to comfort him. Boris burns breakfast on the stove, and lets the coffee get cold in the pot, and comes in to wake Theo up with flour smeared on his forehead and partly in his hair, a smile on his face, and Theo is safe.

Like going cold turkey off the booze and the pills was absolutely worth it as long as he has Boris here to boss him around, make him functional and safe and _genuinely happy_ for the first time since his mother died.

Isn’t that a thought? Theo wasn’t sure he’d ever be truly happy again after the Met. If he’d understood the glimmer of happiness he’d felt in Vegas was solely because of Boris, he would have dragged him into that taxi, the night his father died. He would never have left him in that deadbeat town, with people who didn’t understand how extraordinary he was. Boris makes him so incredibly happy in so many subtle and perfect ways.

And Theo has to force himself to the bottom of the gym’s pool, enfolded in the water, in order to process this. He can begin to understand what he feels is love so long as he has the water there to hold him and muffle everything else for a second so he can wrap his hands around the idea and get it in his head.

He loves Boris. And that hurts. But the water helps.

~

Boris has no idea what sex means to Theo. They’ve never really talked about it, ever, except for some vague questions back in Vegas when Boris was dating Kotku, which he was all too pleased to answer.

And he knows — or, rather, _knew_ — more about Theo’s sex life than anyone would expect. More than _Theo_ would expect. Boris knew, just as he knew Theo wouldn’t remember showing him the painting, that Theo didn’t remember the things they did in Vegas. Or if he did, he’d pushed it very far back in his mind, far enough to continue on with his life while pretending it had never happened.

But nowadays, Boris is not so much the expert he once was. And it’s not like it’s something Boris _needs_ to know about — he has literally _no_ jurisdiction over Theo’s sex life, so why would he? — but he’s still curious, because that’s his constant state of being. _What does it feel like to trip acid? What happens if he uses a priceless artwork as leverage in a deal? What’s Theo’s sex life like?_

So, yes, he can go about his day taking phone calls, being driven around by Gyuri, making dinner in old poofter’s kitchen and be quite content with it all. But that doesn’t stop his mind from wandering. He’s got to keep it entertained, and there’s only so much strict business he can talk before his subconscious rouses itself long enough to say, _do you think Potter still makes that grunting noise when he comes?_

If he’s actually thinking about it, his unease comes from the fact that — however misguided it has been — their relationship has _always_ included sex. The sincere lack of it, of sex at all in Boris’ life as of late, is kind of putting him on edge. He probably just needs to go and fuck someone, and then he’ll be fine.

The thing is that he doesn’t really want to. He’s quite content as he is; sleeping in Theo’s bed at night, making breakfast, conducting business at upscale restaurants in the centre of town, coming home in the late afternoon to bother Theo as he finishes up, sitting on the kitchen counter as Theo makes dinner, drinking a little bit of wine and laughing in Hobie’s workshop, before showering, and getting into bed to read and go to sleep. Interrupting that routine, the nice domestic schedule they’ve crafted feels _wrong._

And yes, of course Boris misses the crazy shit they used to do — snorting up crushed pills and washing it down with a shot of vodka, that memorable gunfight, more alcohol than is healthy, staying up to the wee hours of the morning and feeling the effects of their hangovers set in, only to be muted by more crushed up pills — but it’s honestly better for the both of them that they don’t do that anymore, because Theo was absolutely right when he said that kind of lifestyle would put them in early graves.

He’d be lying quite spectacularly if he said he didn’t miss sex; the rush of it, the intimacy, and the aftermath, as messy and impersonal as it may be, sometimes, and though it’s been a while since he’s had any of that with him, he misses Theo’s part in it. But at the cost of Theo’s sobriety, and most likely his sanity as well, Boris would never risk their new life together just to get his rocks off.

So he bites his fist and jerks himself off in the shower, instead of rolling on top of Theo in the night and taking another of his kisses.

He has always been someone who takes, hasn’t he? All he does, all he has ever done, is take. The least he can do is give back to Theo, whose heart he stole out from under his nose and plundered until he could no longer profit from it, is by not acting on his selfish desires. He already has enough of Theo to satisfy any ugly cravings he may feel, and he’d never dream of complaining about that.

Anything else he may want gets washed down the shower drain.

~

At this point, Theo lives for the easy intimacy.

Boris can and always will take Theo’s free hand when they take Popchyk for a walk in the late afternoon. Boris will throw an arm over Theo’s shoulders when they’re watching movies on the couch. He will touch Theo’s lower back just slightly as he passes him in the kitchen, throwing a cheeky warning not to back up into him, but it feels like a nice little reminder that he’s there.

Theo is all too aware that he’s there. When he steps out of the shower with a towel wrapped around his waist, Boris is almost always there, brushing his teeth by the sink, and he’ll meet Theo’s eyes in the mirror and smile and Theo can do nothing but smile back, because he can’t even see him properly without his glasses and his heart is still beating two times too fast just from a blurry smile.

He doesn’t know how to tell him. He revels in Boris’ easy touches, relishes being the centre of his attention. He lays awake beside him and studies his sleeping face in the moonlight, even though he tries not to because if he stares too long he might do something drastic like kiss him. Theo can’t do that.

Instead, he gets out of bed, slowly, quietly, and pulls on a sweater and some jeans. He rifled through Boris’ big jacket, hanging on the back of the bedroom door for his lighter and pack of cigarettes, and when he reaches the street below the shop and their bedroom, he paces and smokes, heart and mind racing.

On one hand he’s terrified. Boris is his best friend — albeit closer than most best friends are, but Theo blames that entirely on himself. It’s terrifying that he’s in love with Boris. It terrifying that he practically loses his mind whenever he smiles and calls him Potter, which is all the time. Terrifying that Theo can feel his heart in his throat when Boris calls the apartment above Hobart and Blackwell _home._ Terrifying that every second thought on his mind is often _I want to kiss him._

Theo wants so badly to tell him he’s in love with him. The terror is what keeps him from that. It scares him more than anything else.

On the other hand, what if he did tell him? What if he told Boris how he felt? He might be disgusted. He might laugh and say, “Silly Potter! That was stupid boyish game we played back then! The fucking, the kiss before you left — does not mean all that much.” But he also might say it back. God, Theo wants nothing more than for Boris to just say it back, for him to take Theo’s face into his hands and kiss him, properly kiss him.

Theo’s not too sure much about their relationship would change if everything went right. It would be the same as always, but with _I love you’s_ littered throughout. The same but when Boris comes home in the afternoon he’d greet Theo with a kiss. The same, but instead of waiting for Boris to leave for the day to get off, he’d let Boris do it for him. Probably. Sex is just a whole other thing Theo isn’t ready to look at.

Hobie would grin at him because he’d see how happy Boris makes him, Theo wouldn’t be able to hide it.

He stubs out his cigarette on the sidewalk with the tip of his shoe and quickly digs out another, lighting it as he passes Hobart and Blackwell again. He should be asleep. He hasn’t been this restless since before he reunited with Boris. This is ridiculous.

Theo sighs and pulls out his phone, dialling a number that hasn’t seen much action in ages.

Pippa picks up on the fifth ring. “Hello?” She yawns. “Thee, what’s happening?”

“Oh god,” it hits him and he takes a big drag of his cigarette guiltily, “it’s like six am over there isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Pippa laughs, quietly, and he hears her bed creak on the other end of the line, “but that’s not the _most_ heinous hour you could have called me at. You’re only fifteen minutes in front of my alarm.”

“Geez, I’m sorry about that.” He rubs the back of his neck with his free hand.

“It’s fine, Thee. And besides, you didn’t even wake Everett. He’s a heavy sleeper.” The sound of a door closing, Theo sits down on the doorstep of the shop. “Now, tell me why you’re calling. Isn’t it one am over there?”

“It’s about Boris.” Another deep drag. This is the first step to actually telling Boris. Telling anyone is a step in the right direction, he tells himself.

“Oh, is it?” She replies in a knowing voice. He can almost see her wiggling her eyebrows. There’s a clicking noise on the other end of the line and then the click of a coffee cup.

“Okay, don’t get coy.” Theo rolls his eyes.

She hums for a moment and he revels in the easy way this conversation has gone. It’s times like these he misses her. When she used to visit in the summer they’d accidentally fall asleep in each other’s rooms, up so late talking and catching up. Theo remembers the amount of times he’d half slept listening to her hum some classical piece she couldn’t play anymore but still loved. His eyes close at the memory and the exhaustion follows. “Just tell me this is the call where you pour your heart out to me about him and not anything else.” His eyes snap open, his cigarette drops from between his fingers. He quickly picks it up.

“You _knew?”_ Theo demands, aghast that he’s been so transparent that even _Pippa,_ who lives on a different continent, could tell he’s in love with Boris.

“Thee, you’re not good at hiding this type of thing,” she sighs, but the good kind of sigh, the kind of sigh you make when a person you love is being stupid but it just makes you more fond of them. “And despite the fact I’ve never even _met_ the man, I know there’s a very good chance he feels the same for you.”

“But what if he _doesn’t?”_ Theo asks, so scared that Boris doesn’t feel the same. He is so fucking scared, it’s crazy. 

“Tell me the harm of finding out?”

“He’ll leave?”

“He _just_ got you back. He worked _hard_ to get you back, from what you’ve told me.” And he hasn’t told her much, just that Boris helped him rescue something that’s been important to him for many years and put it back where it belonged. “He wouldn’t just _leave.”_

“What would you do?”

She pauses. Theo thinks he hears her drink some coffee and place the cup on the kitchen counter. “I wouldn’t want to live in the unknown anymore. There’s so many _what-if’s?_ I’d hate to stay there. I’d want it over with, because knowing is better than not knowing.”

“You think I should tell him.” He says, simply, gazing at the cigarette between his fingers.

“I really do,” Pippa agrees. Theo lets the silence that follows stretch out. It’s easier than saying any of the many crazed things that are spinning around in his head right now.

“Have you got work straight up?” He says, eventually, putting out this cigarette as well, fingers already itching for another.

“Yep. That’s why I had an early alarm,” another sip of coffee, a soft sigh. “I’ll need to take a shower soon, if you’ll let me go.”

“No, of course,” Theo says, feeling embarrassed to have taken up her time at all. It always seems precious because she’s never around that often.

“Thee?”

“Yeah, Pippa?”

“I know I’m very adamant about you telling him, but you should just do what’s good for you, okay?” He stares at his hand, bathed in red and blue from one of the lampshades in the window. “He wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself.”

“I know.” He agrees quietly. He wants another cigarette. Boris would definitely notice three missing.

“Take care,” Pippa always means it when she says that. A tight hug, a kiss to your hair, _take care of yourself._

“You too.” He responds, and then quickly adds, “Uh, say hi to Everett for me.”

“Sure,” she says, clearly amused at his attempt of taking a liking to her boyfriend. “Love you.”

“Yeah, love you.” She hangs up and Theo sighs. Still a good kind of sigh, still a kind of sigh when someone you love makes you feel fond. He misses Pippa.

A shadow passes through the red and blue reflection on Theo’s hand and the front door opens. “I heard talking.”

“Sorry,” And he does mean it, but he’s also a little pleased Boris is here now.

“I wake up and you are gone,” he sits down beside him and Theo turns to find him, sleep mussed with a cushion line running down the length of his cheek and wearing Theo’s favourite green sweater. “Did you want me to think you are kidnapped?”

“No,” he huffs, and Boris slings an arm across his shoulders, leaning in against his back.

“You are shivering,” he comments, quietly.

“It’s nearly winter,” Theo responds, just as quiet. 

“And you are outside at stupid time of night.” He chuckles, and his fingers curl against the knit of Theo’s sweater. “What are you doing out here?” 

“Just went for a short walk.” Theo shrugs just to feel Boris respond to the movement. 

“And a smoke?” There’s a teasing lily to his voice as he nudged the discarded pack of cigarettes with his bare foot. 

Theo flushes with the embarrassment of being caught red handed. “Yeah,” he admits. 

“Thought you had quit.” He’s imagining the way Boris’s cheek is pressing into his neck, his curly hair tickling the lobe of his ear. His breath is puffing hot and visible against Theo’s bared collarbone. 

“I did.” Theo turns his head so his chin hits over Boris’ head, a comforting gesture, and accepting gesture. “Today’s a cheat day.” 

“Ah,” he picks up the packet and Theo hands him the lighter, listening to the click and hearing the soft exhale as Boris lets out his first drag, the smoke accompanying his next words, “a _cheat day.”_

“Yes.” Theo agrees, sounding fondly chagrined. He plucks the cigarette from between Boris’ lips, touching his bottom lip very briefly, and setting it between his teeth to get rid of the feeling. 

“Give me that!” Boris cries, happily, batting at Theo’s shoulder. “You’ve had enough tonight!” Theo laughs, leaving Boris to reach for the cigarette that Theo is now holding out of reach. 

He relents eventually, giving it back. Boris is right he’s had enough. It’s a few exhales later that Boris clears his throat and asks, “Who were you talking to at this hour?” 

“Pippa,” Theo answers simply, thinking about her going to work in London. He’s been to London a few times, but he’s only been to her place once, and that was back before he was clean so it’s not the clearest in his memory. She’s coming for Christmas this year. 

“Oh?” There’s a little less energy in his tone. His fingers tighten in the knit of Theo’s sweater. “And how is your redhead?” 

“We’ve talked about this, she’s not _mine,_ but she _is_ alright.” He turns to look at him, and he is sitting on the dark stone steps, his skin and hair bearing the suggestion of the blue and red of the lampshade inside. “I beat her alarm by a few minutes which she thought was funny.” 

“That _is_ funny,” Boris agrees. Theo feels him pull away and barely holds himself back from grabbing him and keeping him there, warm and smoking against his back. “What did you talk about?” 

He considers lying for a moment. He decides against it, “You.” 

“Oh?” He sounds mildly surprised. Then his tone changes once more to that easy joking he’s all too happy to use. “Complaining about my snoring?” 

“You don’t snore,” Theo snorts, knowing this to be true. He kicks a little and gets death grips on Theo’s wrists, and he might sometimes speak a foreign language in his sleep, but he doesn’t snore. 

“You’re a liar,” Boris bumps their shoulders together and puts out his cigarette with his foot, “but at least you’re pretty.” 

Theo’s skin stings. “Boris?” His voice is strangled and he suddenly doesn’t have the shame to care. 

“Yes, Potter?” 

There’s a lump in his throat, but he won’t let that stop him. “Do you think you could love a boy?” 

Boris pauses, considers it, and replies, with his cheek in his hand, elbow on his knee, “Considering the fact that I have many times before, I will say yes.” 

“You have?” Theo tries not to sound surprised. He doesn’t do a very good job at it. 

“Yes,” Boris laughs, obviously amused by Theo’s surprise. “Quite frequently. Almost as frequently as the girls.” 

“Really?” 

“I thought this was obvious.” 

“No, I didn’t…I mean maybe I _thought_ — but I didn’t-“ 

“Is okay, Potter,” he lays a hand on Theo’s wrist, half on the material of the sweater, half over his old skin, and Theo wants to lay a hand over his and hold on forever. It makes more sense than anything else right now. “You do not need to explain yourself.” 

It’s not the explaining, it’s the fight to get the words out, those words he needs to say. The words Boris needs to hear before they can go on. He might choke on the words but he’ll say them if it kills him. “Do you think you could ever love _me?”_

“Of course,” Boris says immediately, and he squeezes Theo’s wrist, bringing his attention to his face, so he can smile so softly, so tenderly it hurts. “Is easy to do something you’ve been doing for years.” 

“What?” Theo asks, barely a word, his mouth going dry, his heart skipping a beat. Surely not. 

Boris doesn’t even take a moment before he continues, he just plows on, face determined and earnest as he says, “I have loved you since I met you, I think.” 

Perhaps Theo dies. He knows he turns and grabs Boris’ wrists the way Boris is holding his, needing the contact, making him stay, it would be so like the universe to take him away right after that, and Theo will do anything to stop that from happening. “I — Boris-“ 

Boris watches him closely, waiting for his next words to come, but they don’t. Slowly, and so very cautiously, he prompts, “You feel the same?” 

“I-“ he can’t muster the words he needs to say. All he can do is lean in until their noses brush, their foreheads pressed against one another, Boris’ surprised inhale puffing out against his lips. “I never knew how to say it — or _when_ to say it.” 

“You do not have to say it.” Boris’ eyes close, his lips brush Theo’s only a little and Theo’s hands rush up his arms, gripping his biceps. To be touched like this after so long is far too much already but he can’t let it get away. “Now I know. You will tell me if it changes?” 

“It won’t,” he whispers. He means it. 

Boris shakes his head but only slightly, and says grimly, “Love does not work like that.” 

“Then how have you loved me since Vegas?” Theo shifts and now their cheeks press together, the frame of Theo’s glasses jutting into his cheekbone. “How have _I?”_

Boris releases the hold he had on Theo’s wrist and reaches up to cup his cheek and turn him so they are facing each other again. He opens his eyes. They’re a bit glassy. Theo says nothing. He doesn’t want Boris to think this love is anywhere near as fleeting as he seems to imagine it is. He wants to kiss him, properly kiss him. 

So he does. 

At the first touch of lips, Boris inhales sharply through his nose, and freezes, but very quickly throws his arms over Theo’s shoulder and drags him impossibly closer, kissing back and huffing slightly as he does, as if any effort he makes is not enough and never will be. It’s incredibly endearing. 

Eventually a very large shiver ripples through Teo and Boris pulls away, flush high in his cheeks and mouth red. “We should go inside,” he says, his breath puffing out visibly. “Is cold.” 

Theo can’t look away from him, can’t let go of him, he’s like a skipping record, stuck on loop, “I love you,” spilling out of his mouth unbidden, but not unwanted, thank god. 

Boris smiles, and strokes Theo’s cheek lightly. “And I love you.” He shakes off Theo’s hold and scoops up his cigarettes and lighter, now smiling coyly. “And _you_ owe me three cigarettes.” 

“I owe you _two,”_ Theo corrects with a mock-scowl. 

He considers this and then nods to himself and says, “You owe me _two_ and a _kiss.”_

~ 

“I am thinking of leaving.” It’s an abrupt statement. Theo doodling on post-it notes at the register looks up, having not quite heard what Boris said but catching the drift of it. 

“Huh?” He says anyway, promoting a sheepish look from Boris.

“Do not misunderstand; I love this.” He comes closer to the register fidgeting with the lining of his big coat, not quite looking at Theo. It’s been almost a week since Theo smoked three cigarettes in a row and kissed him on the front step. He was wrong; there was a noticeable change once they’d confessed their feelings and settled into a decidedly more intimate way of life, so obvious, Hobie noticed the next morning, though that was mostly due to him hearing a clatter in Pippa’s old room and walked in to find Theo scavenging for concealer because Boris had littered his neck in small purple bruises. 

This is a little out of the blue after the almost daze he’s been in since that night. “You see, this is not what I am used to. I am usually constantly moving, so staying still for so long is strange to me. I want to get back to travelling.” Boris looks up at him, smiles weakly, and continues, “I want you to come with me. If only for a bit.” 

“Travel with you?” Theo asks, feeling only a little taken aback because this is Boris he’s talking about, the same boy who handed him a bit of foil and told him to trust him at that old playground in the desert. Asking him to up and leave his life here to travel him is not out of character, except that it’s come after many months of contented silence. 

“You do not have to come, I will not make you,” Boris rushes out, sounding almost embarrassed, which _is_ out of character. “But I could show you so many things. All the places you have ever wanted to go, we will go. Stay in the best hotels, eat the best food — anything.” 

Theo rounds the counter, slowly, “You don’t have to bribe me, you know.” 

Boris still gives him this look that Theo can now recognise as longing. “Please come with me,” he says, looking the way he did that night in the backseat when they reunited after eight years and he was psyching himself up to tell Theo what he’d done. 

“When do you want to leave?” He asks, feeling slightly queasy. Boris leaving had never crossed his mind. Well, it _had,_ but that was worst case scenario shit. And yes, he’s asked Theo to come with him, but it’s still throwing a wrench in their nice domestic routine. 

“Next week.” He rubs the back of his neck and doesn’t quite meet Theo’s eyes. “Meeting my team in Antwerp.” 

“Ah.” He makes up his mind. He can do this. He’d do anything to keep Boris in his life now, and if that means that he follows him around the world as Boris had done with him a year before, he’ll do it, absolutely. He takes ahold of Boris’ wrist and pulls him closer. “Okay, let’s do it.” 

The tension leaks from Boris’s posture and he sighs with relief. “You would have to learn some Russian,” he says, matter-of-factly, but so much lighter than before. 

“I think I could do that,” Theo says optimistically, praying prolonged exposure to native Russian speakers will work better than two semesters of in depth study of the language. 

“Oh yes?” Boris asks in a teasing voice. He always gets smug about Theo’s pronunciation. 

“I’ll have to settle some things here,” Theo tells him, releasing him and going back around the counter, giving a snoozing Popchyk a quick pat with his foot. “Hobie won’t get too much money with the shop closed. I’ll have to do some insurance checks and the like.” 

“So serious, Potter,” Boris teases, and toys with the paper clips in the small tin begins the arch of the desk. 

“You’re _asking_ me something serious,” Theo reminds him. Hobie will be a little taken aback by the suddenness of all this, but he’ll be glad they’re making their own way in the world as well, even if he’s not too sure exactly what it is that Boris does. Theo isn’t even too sure, but that bothers him less than it used to. 

Boris tuts, picking up Popchyk and rocking him slowly like a baby, and not an old arthritic dog. “Is not as serious as, say, proposing marriage?” 

Theo shakes his head and sets down the papers he’s attempting to read. “Now are you making fun of me or hinting at something?” 

“Oh please,” he blows a raspberry and kisses Popchyk’s forehead, and an awfully comfortable warm feeling smacks Theo across the face, because the feeling is _home._ “I would not whip out a ring this soon.” 

“I kind of feel like you would,” Theo retorts, squeezing past Boris to get at the stapler. 

“Pah, you make me sound like some sentimental sap.” Boris says as he sets Popchyk back down in his worn out dog bed, already lazing on the mountain of pillows Hobie supplied for it. 

“You are,” Theo says, taking his hand and lacing their fingers together. 

Boris glances at their hands and then back to Theo’s face, and outright grins. “Maybe,” he allows, and then pecks Theo on the cheek. He wanders off deep into the shop towards the stairwell, talking to himself about calling Myriam to organise everything. Theo leans on the counter and feels at ease, which is strange when there’s such a big change coming on in his life. 

It’s fine though. He’s got Boris with him this time.

  
  


**fin.**

**Author's Note:**

> I was gonna take that a way angstier route, I swear to god I was, but I couldn’t bring myself to. Thanks so much for reading, please consider leaving me a comment on what you thought, and hmu on Tumblr @nose-coffee because I post a lot about The Goldfinch and also generally really funny shit. I really hope you liked this, and, once again, thank you for reading :)


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